


Sacredness and Joy

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Second Time, blowing raspberries, sex is sometimes funny, the other kind of blow job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes knows a little about sex; he knows less about sexual intimacy - but he's a quick study, and he has a good teacher. He's about to learn about sex, laughter and raspberries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacredness and Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> Once more, a fic to be laid at the feet of atlinmerrick. We were talking about sex being sometimes hilarious, and about how Sherlock plans on a chubby old age, and then I said I wanted to read about John blowing raspberries on Sherlock's belly, and then she told me to write it. 
> 
> As always, her wish is my command.
> 
> This is a complete PWP.

The first time Sherlock and John had sex, it was fast and frantic: months and months and months of desire and imagining and _need_ breaking out of them like water breaching a dam. Torrents of feeling and anticipation overwhelming everything.

Sherlock had made sounds he’d never heard before, let alone expected out of his own mouth. Initial self-consciousness about them had vanished under the onslaught of John’s own lavish moans and mutterings, shouts and cries. _Oh god, yes, Sherlock, please, fuck, oh fuck you are gorgeous, you are so, Christ, god, yes, touch me, that’s, oh, **oh** , **god,** **aaaaaaahhh, Sherlock,** Sherlock, Christ yes, yes, Sherlock…_ diminishing to treasured whispers.

John was not the slightest bit abashed about his vocal _fuck-yes_ approval of the whole experience, and so Sherlock took his lead. Sherlock lay there afterwards, thinking about those sounds, John’s and his own, while John, splayed over his torso, drowsily ran a blunt finger over Sherlock’s chest and belly.

“Sorry,” John murmured, half laughing, half sincere.

Sherlock was genuinely puzzled. “What for?”

“That was… quick. Faster than I’d…” John nuzzled against one of Sherlock’s already newly stiffening nipples, “I’d always thought if we ever got to this we’d take our time and. Ah. Well. I…”

It hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that the dizzying experience he’d just undergone – skin on skin, wet mouths and hard cocks and all those combinations of touch and motion, voices mingling in almost incoherent declarations of pleasure and satisfaction, nerve endings on fire in the most exquisite way – that it could be considered in any way unsatisfactory.

Sherlock tucked his chin down to look at John not looking at him.

“John?”

John looked up.

“I found sex with you more than satisfactory.”

And damn if John didn’t giggle then. “God, yes you did, you glorious bastard. Christ. Watching you, _hearing_ you, I just couldn’t… I wanted to do so much more for you, but you’re so damned _responsive_.”

Sherlock gave a quiet hum, pleased at confirmation that the unbridled sounds they made together were as pleasing to John as to himself. Sherlock could feel John’s penis hardening against his thigh, as if additional evidence were required. Sherlock shifted his leg slightly, pressing his thigh against John’s erection.

John hummed his own appreciation and pushed back with his hips. The hand that had formerly stroked Sherlock’s chest and stomach drifted down to play lightly over Sherlock’s own growing erection.

There really was a lot of pent up sexual tension behind that dam.

John wriggled up along Sherlock’s body (the heat and faint slick of sweat struck Sherlock as surprisingly arousing; he would have thought to find it unpleasant. He had so much to learn about himself in this situation) to kiss his new lover’s mouth. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist, splaying his hand across the centre of John’s back, holding him close.

For a good long while they kissed, bodies undulating against each other with no real urgency this time, but with full attention, certainly. Every slide of skin elicited gasps, soft moans, whispered names and imprecations.

John drew back a little to kiss Sherlock’s brow, his temples, his chin, and he noticed the almost fierce concentration of Sherlock’s expression.

“Hey, there, hey,” he said, tracing his fingertips over those astonishing cheekbones, “Relax.”

“I am relaxed, John,” Sherlock told him, arching up underneath John’s sturdy, warm weight. Sherlock’s own body didn’t feel relaxed. His erection felt particularly not relaxed.

John grinned and wriggled again, pressing their pelvises together. John’s own musculature, Sherlock noted, was more languid, although his erection was just as insistent.

“What’re you thinking about so hard, then?”

“You,” Sherlock said, “Me. What our bodies are doing. Temperatures. Textures. Variables.”

“You know there isn’t going to be a quiz afterwards, right?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but John seemed playful rather than peeved. John’s smile was affectionate and non-judgemental. Sherlock hummed – he had already established how much John liked feeling that baritone sound rumble against his skin – and tapped his fingers against John’s spine.

“I am still myself, John.”

“Of course you are. Don’t think I’d want to change that for the world. You want to catalogue everything. I get that. But still. You don’t want to miss being in the moment because you’re busy taking notes, do you?”

“I’m not missing…”

“Because sex… and making love. Which is what this is. I hope you see the difference.”

Sherlock considered a moment. “Yes,” he conceded, because he’d had sex before, a few times, a long time ago, for purely transactional or investigative reasons (he had explained this to John a few hours ago) and it had never been like this. “Sentiment. I love you, therefore the act is qualitatively superior.”

John’s blue eyes sparked at this, Sherlock’s first admission, reciprocation for John’s hour-old declaration that had led to this moment. A declaration worth repeating, so he did.

“I love you, too. And so sex can be…” John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “It can be gentle as well as passionate. It can be profound and even sacred.” A most reverent kiss on Sherlock’s mouth then, and Sherlock could taste the reverence in it. Sacred and profound. Gentle and passionate.

“But it can be other things too. You have to be in the moment.”

“I don’t…” _know what you mean_ would have finished the sentence, but John kissed him again, then smiled, and began to move. Planting kisses on Sherlock’s lower lip, then his chin, then his sternum, and down. The top of his ribs.  The taut skin above Sherlock’s navel. The navel itself, with a swirl of tongue, and Sherlock sighed and stretched to present more of himself to these wandering ministrations and then…

_Bbbllrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppfffft._

Sherlock yelped and jerked aside at the sudden wet, ticklish, _loud_ sensation of John blowing his lips against the softer skin of Sherlock’s belly.

John seized Sherlock by the waist to hold him still and thrust his face against Sherlock’s belly again, blowing the loudest raspberry he could. Sherlock yelped again, more in laughter than surprise this time, responding to John’s own sudden giggles. When a third attack didn’t seem to be forthcoming, Sherlock looked down at John, looking up at him, chin resting on Sherlock’s belly, grin as wide and warm as the day.

“Sometimes, sex is just fun,” John elaborated, “Funny and…. It’s not always so serious, I mean. It’s… joyful too.

“I see,” Sherlock replied laconically, and relaxed against the pillow to contemplate this new data. John gave a little huff, not quite exasperated, but considering his next move, maybe with a view to returning to the perfectly acceptable (in fact thoroughly desirable) activity of kissing and soft rutting which would soon turn to hard rutting and more groans and climax, and Sherlock would have been content with that. More than content.

But.

Lessons in intimacy, not Sherlock’s strong point, were nonetheless valuable. Especially here, especially now, negotiating this new territory.   Sherlock Holmes was a fast learner, however. He was, after all, a genius.

Sherlock curved his hand over John’s head, petting his hair, running his thumb over John’s cheek.

“I had fun,” Sherlock said earnestly, “I would like some more fun. If you’ll stop talking.”

John – wonderful John who understood him more often than not – responded with an almost wolfish smile and began crawling his way back up Sherlock’s body, kissing and licking and sucking and gently scraping against pale skin with his teeth. Sherlock arched into John’s mouth, and his hands, until John’s lips were on his and their tongues twining.

And then Sherlock used his superior height (well, length, technically, since they were lying down, and the English language was peculiar in the way it differentiated between horizontal and vertical distance that way) to seize John and flip him onto this back.

John gave a woof of surprise, air expelling from his lungs, and then a most undignified shriek as Sherlock’s head of dark, wavy hair ducked down and Sherlock blew a magnificent raspberry on John’s own soft belly. And again. And again.

John, wheezing with laughter, tried to scramble away, but Sherlock was after him, decisive and swift as a hunter, pinning John down by the legs. John twisted, using all his strength despite the laughter robbing him of purpose, ending up belly-down in his attempt to thwart a fourth attack.

Sherlock, ever the improviser, shimmied over John’s legs, descended upon John’s bare arse and blew a loud, triumphant raspberry against that pale, plump rise. (So much paler than John’s arms, and now the muscles were clenching in reaction, harder even than John’s abdomen and his pectorals with those sensitive nipples, and oh, well, there was a thought, an idea, an experiment…)

And the raspberry morphed, the energetic vibration of lips on skin shifting as Sherlock widened his mouth on that curve, scraped his teeth over it instead, lightly, as lightly as John had earlier run his teeth over Sherlock’s chest, and then Sherlock licked. And sucked. Licked again. Kissed. Pressed his mouth and face into that mound of backside and nuzzled it.

John had stopped laughing, though his breath was still labouring. He moaned instead and wriggled. Arched his arse back against Sherlock’s mouth.

“Sherlock. God.”

And Sherlock traced the curve of that fine bottom with his tongue, over the rise and to the cleft, and to his surprise – and perhaps also to John’s – John’s legs parted as he moaned, and Sherlock nuzzled into the V, licking and kissing in the warmth.

John’s breath hitched.

“Sherlock. God. Please. _Yes_.” John rose up onto his spread-wide knees and Sherlock moved so that he could press his face into and lick against John’s perineum, against his scrotum, against the soft skin of John’s inner thighs then back up.

Sherlock kissed those places too, then followed the curve up again, kissing both cheeks, up to the small of John’s back, then along, until the front of his whole body was pressed against the whole of John’s back, his hips rocking against John’s backside. John rocked back into him as well.

This was new, too new, to try right now. Not enough knowledge or experience between them about how to do this. The tip of Sherlock’s cock rubbed over John’s entrance again and again, slick with pre-cum, but neither of them was ready yet for the breaching. (Research on best methods of preparation, yes, and Sherlock thought that he would like to be inside John, and that he would rather like John to be inside him too, and there would be time enough for all the options to be explored, no hurry, oh but, yes, some hurry, some, the tension was building and his balls were tight and his cock so hard but this felt good, good, so good, but not enough, not enough…)

John twisted under him, so Sherlock raised himself up, giving his lover room, and then pushed down again, front to front, erections pressed hotly together. John legs were wound around Sherlock’s waist, his mouth on Sherlock’s collarbone and throat and mouth, and Sherlock was thrusting down, John up, friction and sliding and slick perfection and everything was tight and hard and _god oh god oh god_ …

Then everything was stickiness and exhaustion and John was heaving for breath and Sherlock was sprawled over him, face buried in John’s neck, breath huffing in counterpoint. Sherlock thought he ought to move, but John’s arms were wrapped around him, holding him close, holding them skin to damp skin.

Sherlock moved, pressing his nose against John’s pulse point. He wanted to lick the skin, measure the heartbeats, taste the sweat, run John’s hair through his fingers, count his breaths, listen to the joy and pleasure in those wordless huffs, see John’s eyes, to whisper to him, to say ridiculous things, to hold him forever and ever and be here and now and and and…

Sherlock let it all go. He drew a breath and pressed his lips to John’s clavicle. Blew, but the shape wasn’t right to get the desired effect, but John, marvellous John, understood and laughed anyway.

Joyful. Joyful.

That was the only word Sherlock catalogued, as John splayed his fingers over Sherlock’s cheeks and kissed his brow and nose, and they shifted so that John wasn’t getting squashed. As, tangled up together, warm and content, they drifted into sleep.

 

 


End file.
